Inknight
by Deidara the Arrancar Alchemist
Summary: The Night-Mare that was once Basta was never fully destroyed by Dustfinger. Now something neither human or monster, Basta seeks revenge on those he names as his enemies. But will his conscience get the better of him when there is a chance for redemption?
1. Written in Fire

_Hello to you, the reader who has stumbled upon this story. This idea has been in my head forever, bit I've never been able to put into the right words - till now. I don't necessarily know where the story is going, but wherever it winds up I hope it's good! _

_Basically, I was distraught when Basta died in Inkspell, relieved when he came back in Inkdeath, even if he wasn't exactly human, then distraught again when Dusfinger disposed of him. So, I'm bending the end and giving Basta a second shot at life. Huzzah!_

_OK, let's get to business. I sincerely hope you like this story ^^_

CHAPTER ONE –

"Well look! Who have we here? Do you remember yourself in all your darkness? Do you remember the knife, and the boys' thin, unprotected back? Do you remember the sound my heart made when it broke?"

The Night-Mare would have said "no", but his dull, confused mind could hardly make sense of anything these days. It was as dense and dark as a jungle under a moonless night, and thick black fog obscured memories and anything human that once dwelled in that tainted soul. He was trapped with the freezing maze of his own head.

The Night-mare knew neither light nor dark, past or future. He only knew he was hungry, and the man before him was getting in the way of his meal. He only understood the commands of his Master, and he vaguely make out the words that this fiery man spoke to him.

The man was frustratingly familiar, but his unfocused thoughts couldn't pin down the name. The Night-Mare hissed as he approached him, the flames that cloaked him tenderly flaring into searing crimson hotness.

"Away with you, Basta!" cried Dustfinger, his voice sharper than a blade-sized thorn. "Be gone for all eternity!"

Basta…

Reality crashed down upon him with horrible, terrifying clarity, a cascade of memories threatening to drown him. He recognised the man in front of him as Dustfinger, and cursed his name a hundred times, and then screamed in agony as his enemy's fire sunk its fierce jaws into his cold flesh. Basta, Basta, Basta was scrawled across his mind in flaming words, and he shrieked as he tried to shake off the weight of the truth and the memories.

Basta's coal-black form melted and dispersed like a cloud of startled crows, but a shred of sanity that Basta had suddenly found clung to reality. Whilst his body perished, a scrap fought against the fire and scurried to the deepest shadows, as far away from Dustfinger and his faithful flames.

He watched cautiously as Dustfinger fell to his knees, before quickly getting to his feet again and freeing his daughter from the giant bird cage. They ran away swiftly and without a second glance, Basta shrinking from the soldiers that came searching for him a little while later.

After they had finally gone, the small puddle of shadow lay gasping and drained in the corner, trying to piece together what was going on. Slowly but surely, he remembered who he was.

"My name is Basta," he murmured, his voice oddly distorted, and he quivered slightly as he knew he'd spoken even though he didn't have a visible mouth.

For several years of his life he had served under Capricorn, the Fire-Raiser. Then his perception of life was turned upside-down when Silvertongue read him out of the story, and he learnt his world was mere paper and ink. Then he was read back again some years later, and Mortola had shot Silvertongue as revenge for killing Capricorn, her son. He then served under the Adderhead for a short while, and he was once again tangled up in a story with Silvertongue, or the Bluejay as they called him now, and his little witch of a daughter. Basta had killed Farid, the boy Dustfinger loved like a son, a love worth more than all the silver that decorated the Castle of Night. Silvertongue had killed him for that. Basta shuddered as he recalled the pain of death, and then the oblivion that followed. He supposed this nothingness was the empty space he'd existed as a Night-Mare.

Basta suddenly felt something he forgot he could feel. He felt sad, disappointed, shocked, and disturbed. He had died, and when the life left his old body his soul had been so dark that the White Women had refused to claim him. It made him feel sick and guilty. He had lived his entire life as a man that was loathed by all others: he had killed, pillaged, terrorised and wasted his life trodden down by the likes of Capricorn and the Adderhead.

But then again, he always knew that when he died, he wouldn't earn a place with Death. His countless lucky charms and careful, paranoid superstitions hadn't helped protecting him from harm.

He hissed to himself, the Night-Mare not quite expelled from his broken form. This was not like him at all. It was not in his nature to be a remorseful, angsty man, or whatever he was now. He had more important things to worry about.

Questions filled his restored mind: What was he? Was he dead or alive? Where should he go? What he should he do?

He moaned as he racked his brains. After a few moments hesitant thought, he decided to scarper. There wasn't much use hanging around here any longer. Dustfinger might realise he hadn't quite finished the job and come back to stamp him out. He knew that his loyalty to the Adderhead was over, and that he was his own master. He could do what he liked now.

"I need to get back to Argenta," he said to himself. "Yes, that's familiar territory." But it would be a long journey, and he wondered if he would still be in one piece. After that, he didn't know what he was going to do, but anywhere was better than here.

Basta sighed, and mentally grit his teeth in concentration. He didn't really know what he was concentrating on, but the results were what he wanted. He gathered the shadows that lurked in the dank corners and added it to his own body. It was very difficult, as he was weak and Dustfinger's fire had left very little coldness left for him to steal. But eventually, the puddle of blackness had now tripled in size and depth, and he had regained a pair of dark red eyes, not as dull as before but brighter and more determined.

As the shadows of Basta arched up into the sky, he swore that if he ever met Dustfinger again, he would destroy him. Oh how he hated the man! And if he couldn't take away his life, he'd take away something precious to him. He'd done it once; he could do it again with ease. A little voice in the back of his head shied away from the grim thoughts, and whispered "I thought you regretted the wrongs of the past?", but Basta ignored it.

He spiralled up out of the Castle of the Lake, flying over the flat, obsidian surface, camouflaged against the night.

_Well, that's the first chapter. I'm sorry if was more angst than actual story : ( But I promise the next chapters will be better! But if you did like it, please review, cause that would be nice! ^^_


	2. Becomming Basta Again

Basta glided down noiselessly and gracefully as he reached the edge of the trees. He blended in perfectly with the murky thicket, except for the gleam of his crimson eyes that burned not unlike the Shadow's. To a passer-by at the time, he would look just like any other nocturnal creature of the wood, as Basta could see a few other pairs of glinting eyes in the gloom. They quickly vanished after his arrival.

It was only a short flight, but it had exhausted Basta so much that he collapsed at the foot of a twisted oak tree. "Curse that Silvertongue!" he muttered to himself in his raspy tongue. "If he hadn't killed me I wouldn't be in this mess." Basta added his name to his vengeance list, and then threw in his daughter Meggie for good measure, had she had disrupted his life too many times to count.

He examined himself, and would have frowned if he had eyebrows. Now that he had regained his sense of who he was, he really wanted to look like his old self again. He wanted to forget that he'd ever been a Night-Mare, force himself to think that nothing had ever happened between that battle under the trees and now. He was Basta, and he wanted to be recognizable as Basta.

So, trying to remember what he did back at the Castle of the Lake, he gathered the shadows around him and added it to his jet-black form, draining the night of its darkness. After a few minutes, he had a vaguely, humanoid shape, as in he had a body, two arms, two leg and a head. But he wasn't going to settle for that.

He glided over to the lake's edge, careful to look out for anyone that could be watching, and hunkered down beside the pebbled shore. His reflection glared back at him, a dark silhouette that blocked out the midnight-blue sky reflected above him. The crimson eyes were widened in shock, then narrowed in irritation and concentration.

Before his very eyes, the darkness of his shrunk inside himself and his smoky body became paler, thicker and softer, his face moulding into the familiar foxy features and dark hair sprouting from his scalp. The crudeness of his form became more complex and not so hollow. A skeleton hardened within him and organs formed, and soon he had a heart pounding against his ribs and dark red blood surging through his veins. He took a great lungful of air into his newly created lungs, and exhaled deeply, eyes closed as he savoured the oxygen.

He cracked his eyes open, and blinked in delighted surprise at his new reflection.

A relatively young man of quite short stature peered back at him. His narrow shoulders were hunched slightly as he bent closer to the water, his flesh sallow and ashen in the dim light, a layer of clammy sweat clinging to his skin after the effort he had put into the transformation. His face was as it always had been: sharp featured with high cheekbones, close-set eyes below somewhat arched eyebrows, his thin lips curled in a satisfied smile. He flexed his fingers experimentally before running a hesitant hand over his face, remembering the contours and wrinkles. The one thing that hadn't changed was the smouldering red eyes, a constant reminder of the Night-Mare that still lurked underneath the human exterior.

He shrugged to himself and said "It will have to do."

He stood up, wobbling slightly on legs he hadn't used for months, and looked at the castle that rose from the icy lake. A few of its windows were orange with candlelight, and he could hear a few screams and shouts. He wondered what was happening there, and whether he should return, but he dismissed the thought immediately. He would surely be killed as soon as he was spotted. He had no allegiances to anyone anymore.

He turned from the castle and slowly walked back into the thicket, tripping and stumbling slightly as he went. He shivered as a bitter wind caressed his skin, and only then realised that he had no clothes.

"Great" he snarled. "Now I'm going to freeze to-"He stopped short before he said the word death. Was he dead? He could feel a pulse against his wrist, and he was breathing in and out like any living person, but did that mean he was actually alive, or some mere copy of life?

He suddenly felt a sharp ache between his lower ribs, and glanced down and gagged in shock. There was a large, straight scar there, swollen and red, bruised around the edges. He gingerly touched it and felt a momentary fire sting there. This must be where Silvertongue's sword had plunged through his body. A memory came back with horrific clarity, flashing white-hot into his mind.

_Basta was grinning in morbid pleasure at the sight of Dustfinger cradling a broken Farid in his arms, whilst Meggie was sobbing and whispering the boy's name over and over again. He was oblivious to the clang of steel upon steel, the grunts and yells of men as they fought and the wails of the women who watched on reluctantly from behind the protective ring of fire. The rain plastered his hair to his face and hissed when it collided with the orange flames. Basta let out a cruel chuckle as Dustfinger slowly turned to glare at him through clenched teeth, rage and sorrow and helplessness etched onto the scarred face. _

_Suddenly, pain blossomed in his side, hot blood spurting out in a fountain of red, a few flecks splattering against his cheeks, which were now numb and slack. He winced as more blood welled up in his mouth, bitter to the taste, and grunted as the cold metal was wrenched out of his body. He collapsed into the churned up mud, and rasped his last breathe as his vision faded into perpetual darkness. _

Basta lurched back to the present, cold sweat glistening on his forehead. So, that was show he died.

He stood frozen to the spot for a few minutes before he heard a twig snap. He spun around to face the noise, ducking behind a bush so he was less visible. His hand automatically clutched at his throat, but then he dropped it when he realised he didn't have a lucky charm there anymore, this knowledge making him feel more vunerable.

A few seconds later, he could see someone stumbling out of the undergrowth, someone he vaguely recognised. He let out an inhuman growl as he recalled the moon-shaped, clammy face that was even paler and sweaty in fear. Orpheus.

Orpheus lumbered past, tearing branches out of his way, until his cloak became snared on a bough of thorns. He cursed as he tried to tug it off, and the grey Glassman that peeped out of his pocket cried "Master, Master! Please hurry up, please do! There's something in the bushes eyeing us, Master! Something with red eyes!"

"Be quiet, before I smash you to pieces!" hissed Orpheus as he desperately yanked at the cloak, but it was obvious that his terror had increased now that the Glassman had spotted Basta watching them through the leaves.

Basta felt a lurch in his stomach, and recognised it immediately. It was hunger, a hunger that desired so desperately to be sated. Basta sniffed the air and tasted the fear that spiralled off Orpheus in thick clouds. As much as Basta wanted to be rid of the Night-Mare in his core, he couldn't deny fresh prey when it was right here in front of him.

Orpheus cursed again as he heard a noise behind him, then yelped when he saw Basta standing nose to nose with him as he spun around.

"B-B-Basta?" he stammered. "Im-impossible! You're supposed to be-"

"Dead?" he whispered in his cat-like rasp. "I was. I died long ago, and now I'm alive again."

"Well, I erm, good for you. Now, would you please move out of the way."

"I don't see why not" answered Basta coolly.

"I order you to move!" Orpheus demanded, his silky voice shaking with rage. "I commanded you as a Night-Mare, and I can command you now!"

Basta paused. "So it was you who tied a leash around me and ordered me around, eh?" His voice shook with anger too now. "This is the end, Orpheus. Everyone hates you, they hate you more than they hate me, which is saying something. You deserve to die."

The Glassman in his pocket shrieked and jumped out, running away as if he knew what was coming. Orpheus tried to say something, but no intelligent words came from his mouth. The terror a Night-Mare could create had not died from Basta, and as his prey was rooted to the spot, opened his jaws wide and clamped his teeth over the other man's mouth, and in vampire-fashion sucked the life out of him whilst Orpheus writhed and struggled. Within a few moments, all that remained was a hollow skin, like that cast off a serpent.

Basta chucked away the empty carcass and wiped his mouth with a smirk. The cheese-face had been surprisingly delicious.

_Well, there we go! Second chapter. Hope you liked it! ^^_


	3. The Kindnes of Strangers

_Disclaimer: I own nothing whatsoever to do with the Inkheart series. That all belongs to the phenomenal Cornelia Funke. _

_Author's note: Inspiration for the red eyes still lingering after Basta kinda becomes human came from a dream I had a while back of Basta with Night-Mare eyes, which I thought was really cool!_

Basta shivered deeply as another bitter blast of wind threw tiny ice particles into his red eyes. He had stolen the cloak that Orpheus had been wearing, as well as knife he had found tucked in the hollow corpse's belt. When he had stolen the weapon, he ran a long, dexterous finger over the blade, watching it flash in the glow of his eyes and the snatches of starlight that broke through the trees. He smiled as that old sense of power was brought back to him. Even though he probably wouldn't need a knife, now that he was one of the deadliest creatures to stalk this world, but to have a knife on his person was the thing that made him Basta.

'Basta, the knife-loving fire-raiser, that weird guy that's frightened of his own shadow'. That was the type of whispered taunts that the other Black Jackets shared with each other back in the other world behind his back. Basta chose to ignore those idiots, though his hand always closed around the knife hilt till it was as white as bone. The urge to slash their wretched, moronic faces was hard to resist. Images of their bleeding faces usually swam in his dreams, three horrific scars like the ones he gave to Dustfinger.

The wind wailed again, and Basta pulled the cloak around his trembling body as he cut a slow path through the snow-dusted thicket. It was almost morning, as he could see the darkness of the night shifting into dull, pre-dawn grey between the snow-laden clouds. His teeth were chattering and smashing against each other as his energy ebbed away.

_I have to find some sort of shelter, as soon as possible_ he thought, desperately seeking a hollow of a tree, a dry cave, anything to shield him from the weather.

Eventually, the trees thinned out and he was now more exposed than ever. Jagged hills and mountains laced with ice loomed ahead, with the occasional black speck marking a farmhouse or hamlet. Basta was determined to reach one of these little black specks.

The snow began to fall thicker, adding a heavy, damp weight to his shoulders. _I will not give up!_ Basta snarled to himself. _Not now, not when I've only just got my life back!_

"Not now…" he muttered. However, as resolute as he was, he was becoming weaker with each step. His feet felt like blocks of ice, and he knew that a couple of toe or fingers were likely to drop off at any moment. His nose was dripping, his cheeks were red raw and chaffed by the wind, his lips corpse blue and icicles clinging to his eyelashes. With a hoarse gasp, he collapsed in the snow and lay still.

He drifted in and out of consciousness. He didn't know how long he lay there for, but it seemed like eternity to him. After a while, while he was half-awake, he had had the strange notion that he was being moved, dragged along in the snow. He tried to escape from the drowning depths of exhaustion and see who or what was moving him, but he quickly passed into darkness again.

Then, warmth, blissful warmth! It was all around him and he sighed as it melted away the ice stuck to his skin. He cracked open one eyelid and saw through blurred vision a roof above him with orange light dancing upon the wooden slats. He could smell smoke and herbs and the mouth-watering scent of meat on a spit. He wondered where he had ended up. Was it an inn or something?

"Father, I think he's waking up!" said an unfamiliar, hushed female voice.

"'Bout time to," came the gruff answer of an older man's voice. "He's been out cold for half the day."

Basta opened his narrow eyes fully, and they darted to and fro as he examined his surroundings.

A small, wooden hut, probably one with a thatched roof too, not that he could tell from inside it. From what he could judge there were two rooms. The one he was in had a hearth crackling away at the centre of a dusty floor, with pork being roasted on a spit that hung above it. There were stools and benches around the hearth and in the corners of the stuffy room, as well as chests and shelves lining the walls. There was one window, but its shutters were closed against the wind that hammered on it. He could see another room through an open door, and he assumed it was a bedroom as he could see two beds on the far wall.

He looked down at himself and saw he was lying on the floor with a thick woollen blanket covering him, his tattered cloak and newly acquired knife at his feet.

His eyes flickered to three people near the hearth, all of which were watching him intently. Basta clenched his teeth; he didn't trust strangers, but these people must have brought him out the cold and taken him in, and he couldn't be ungrateful for that. He decided that once he was feeling stronger he would get back to the road and be free of these peasants and their searching eyes.

One of them was an old yet hardy looking man, probably a shepherd or something, Basta guessed. He had a tangled grey beard like sheep's wool and dark brown eyes hidden in the wrinkles of his leathery face. There was also an old woman, presumably the old man's wife. Her hair was brown and wispy, streaked with pale grey, and she was quite short and hunched over. Her face was lined, but it was probably beautiful when she was younger. Finally, there was a young woman, their daughter, who only looked about twenty years old. She was dark-haired and had wide, dark blue eyes set into an owlish face. She walked over to Basta and said gently "Are you alright?"

Basta didn't know what to say back. No one had asked him that in years. No one ever wanted to know if he was 'alright'. No one cared about him.

He swallowed and replied back rather stiffly "Yes", then added "thanks" quickly afterwards. His cat's tongue rasp was even worse and his voice was croaky and broken.

"You were frozen half to death," she continued. "If my father hadn't found you, then the wolves might have gotten you."

Basta nodded dumbly.

The girl frowned and said "You have strange eyes…" Basta turned his eyes to the floor, his hand itching to cover his eyes that were obviously inhuman and sinister.

"What's your name?" she asked, and over her shoulder Basta could see her parents murmuring to each other and casting wary looks at Basta.

"Basta" croaked Basta.

"That's an odd name."

Basta scowled. He didn't like it when people insulted him. His rage was even more easily sparked nowadays with a Night-Mare core. _Keep calm_ he told himself. Now was a very inappropriate time to lose his head and devour more victims.

"My name is Belladonna" she said cheerfully, but her eyes kept flicking up to his own, curiosity in their depths.

"Er, nice to meet you." His voice sounded so false! He wasn't accustomed to being nice. Whatever the girl was saying next was distorted to his ears, as Basta slipped back into a deep, dreamless sleep.

_I know what you're thinking! You think the story's gonna become one of those normal character x OC right? Wrong! These are just random characters, they aren't important. OK, there might be pairings added later on, but some might not involve Basta._


	4. Threatening your way out

_Hey, Inkworlders! My most sincere apologies for that terrible travesty that the old chapter 4 was. I thought it was boring and dull, so I'm going to make it a lot better for all you lovely people! _

_But take heed of this dire warning: there will be no more chapters if I don't get any reviews. Make of that what you will._

_Now, on with the REAL story._

Crisp sunlight was filtering through the snow-edged window when Basta awoke. After rubbing the sleep from his blazing eyes, he watched the dust floating around on unfelt currents in the ray of feeble light for a few moments. He never had the patience to watch this tiny spectacle of nature, but since coming so close to dying again so many times, he had learned to appreciate the small threads that made the bigger tapestry.

After his long sleep, he felt refreshed and alert, ready to spring into action if necessary. He sat up and pulled the blanket around him closer to his skin that was now cool and not so pale. He looked down at his feet and saw a pile of clothes left there: a faded, dirty-white tunic, dark trousers, leather boots and a thick woollen cloak. The cloak he'd stolen from Orpheus' empty husk was no where to be seen, not that Basta would need it, but so was the knife, and he wanted to keep his favourite type of weapon with him – just in case.

He tensed for a moment, listening. He could hear a muffled, slow breathing and a loud, rumbling snore from the room beyond the one he was in. That meant two of the peasants were asleep. But the third? He frowned, cocking his head to one side.

"You're awake!"

Basta hissed fiercely through gritted teeth and his shoulders arched upwards, and if he had hackles they would have stood on end, a shiver passing through his bones. He twisted around and came face to face with a pair of startled owlish eyes. He edged away, panting hard, and after a quick glance down he pulled the blanket over himself more to cover his naked body. A subtle shade of pink flushed his chiselled cheeks, and a similar blush darkened the girl's too.

"What are you doing?" snarled Basta, taking great effort to keep him voice low instead of shouting out is crimson anger.

"I was only checking if you were alright" mumbled the girl, looking down at the dirt floor and fiddling with a fold in her dress.

"Well, I'm fine," Basta growled, ruby eyes flashing malignantly in the gloom. "Now, go away."

The girl snorted. "I can't go away in my own house."

There was a loud grunt from the next room as the father twitched from his sleep. Basta tenses again, but relaxed once he could sense the man wasn't about to wake.

Basta sighed harshly through his clenched teeth. "Well at least hold your tongue. Don't want anyone else waking up."

"Why not?" said Belladonna, bewildered. "If you're going to be here for days, my parents will need to wake up eventually."

Now it was Basta's turn to be confused. "What?"

"You almost died last night," she explained. "You ought to stay here until your strength is regained."

"My strength is regained," he murmured darkly. "I want to leave now, if you don't mind."

"But-!" Belladonna began to protest.

"No buts!" Basta hissed, unconsciously leaning towards the door he really wanted to exit through. "Let me go now, and perhaps I won't hurt you."

"Your threats don't scare me" answered the girl, but the defiance was as feeble as a spider's web, and she backed away closer to the wooden walls.

"They aren't threats," said Basta, the familiar cruel smirk twisting his thin lips. "I've killed people before, innocent people. Do you want to be added to my list?"

She shook her head vigorously, face a little ashen, and without a word left the room. Basta swiftly pulled on the new garments and snatched a cooking knife and slung it in his belt. He doubted he'd need human food, not when he was still nourished from his last meal. He opened the door (with some difficulty, as the snow from last night was piled up against it and had frozen the hinges) and was momentarily blinded by the harsh brilliance of the crystalline, white landscape that was illuminated by a watery yet intense sun. The air was brittle like ice, and his breath plumed before him. In the distance, towards the north, he could see the frigid spires of the mountains sinking their teeth into the sky, and to the south, the direction he was headed, rolling plains clad in white and further still a great forest that spread out long autumn fingers. He wasn't familiar with this northern land, but once he travelled deeper into the forest, he was sure certain landmarks would refresh his broken memory.

He stepped out into the snow, and it made a muffled crunch beneath his boots. He was about to take another when he heard a voice from behind his shoulder.

"Aren't you going to thank us?"

Basta paused before slowly turning around, a dark eyebrow raised inquiringly. "Say what?"

"I said," repeated Belladonna, taking a tentative step forward. "Aren't you going to thank us? For saving your life."

Basta hesitated and shrugged. "No, I don't think so."

"But that's so selfish!" said Belladonna, anger darkening her cheeks and some confidence coming back. "We should have left you to die out on the cold if we knew how horrible you are! Selfish bastard."

She flinched and gave a startled cry as there was a flash of silver, like sunlight dancing across the water. Basta had whipped out the stolen knife and held it to her gulping throat, the blade inches from jugular vein. She trembled like a leaf in the wind, eyes looking pleading up into Basta's ferocious ones. They stood frozen in action for a few intense heartbeats, before Basta growled and sheathed the blade. Belladonna clutched the door frame for support, breathing weakly.

"You aren't worth killing" he said, his voice low and feral. "Be careful what you say in future, in case it's the last thing you ever say." And with one last observant glance, he turned on his heel and trudged out of the house, heading south and towards his next prey.

_Whoo! End of the chapter. Hope it was a bit better than the last one. _


	5. The FireDancer's Boy

_Hey folks! I'm so sorry I've taken forever to update, but here we go! Chapter 5! Hopefully this is where things start to get interesting, as I'm going to introduce some more of our familiar characters. So, without further ado, read on…._

Basta was beginning to feel the first signs of fatigue when the cloak of evening fell, painting the distant snow-laden spikes of the mountains with volcanic threads of colour and weaving a fiery, golden-pink aura across the infinitely broad sky. The branches of the threadbare trees shrivelled up as the cold began to settle again and jagged, wispy iron-grey clouds were churned up in the east and being slowly nudged towards Basta, promising more snow.

He scowled as he wove through the dark-skinned trees, fingering the hilt of the blades slung in his belt with impatience and, though he didn't really want to admit it to himself, a little paranoid fear. He'd lost his sense of direction once he'd entered the maze of the small forest and left the open fields behind, and every now and then he thought he'd seen a flicker of a shadow dart away as soon as he attempted to lay his eyes upon it. Without his lucky charm strung around his slender neck, he felt awfully exposed to all the phantoms that lurked in the gloom, and had to settle for the comforting presence of his favoured weapon at his side. He cursed himself for the fear gnawing at him.

"Enough of this," he told himself crossly, his frown deepening. "You're Basta, and what's more you've returned from Death with some of your Nightmare nature intact, so you have nothing to fear. I _am _fear" he added with a smug grin to himself, now that the thought had come to him. He had inspired terror in Cheeseface before he tore the life from him, but then again, Orpheus was petrified of anything that was out of his control.

A snap fro behind him broke his train of thought like a whip cracking flesh. He spun around and drew out his knife in one fluid motion, crimson eyes flashing with menace and lips pulled in a sneering growl. He started when he saw something dodge out of his point of view a second too late, and he grinned to himself when he realised it was of humanoid form. A tug in his gut reminded him that he was craving life source again, and here was some prey that had wandered unwittingly into his midst.

Sneaking forward, his feet as silent as a shadow upon the dead leaves, his eyes burned as his mouth became moist with thirst. He could smell the person nearby, and he ducked down as he caught sight of a young boy hiding in the bushes. Creeping closer, he smirked when he caught the boy's confused expression, as he probably wondered where the man he's been tracking – Basta – had disappeared to.

But then something engulfed Basta, a feeling similar to an ice cube sliding down your spine. Basta couldn't pull his gaze away from the boy that now looked surprisingly and terribly familiar: the smooth coffee skin over the lean muscles of his slender body, the ebony hair that flowed down his arched back that was tenses like a deer ready to take flight, the wide dark eyes scanning the trees. It wasn't that Farid was scary by nature at all, but it was the knowledge that with the boy here, the Fire-Dancer was certain to be close by.

This information sent another shiver through his veins. One part of it was that the boy he had killed to spite his old enemy was now alive and healthy before him and he could simply reclaim vengeance again, and if he dealt with Farid in Night-mare fashion, Dustfinger's heart would shatter beyond emotional repair. But the rest was that irritating fear again. Dustfinger had also returned to the world of the living with powers beyond mortal control, and with a Night-mare core, Basta was in serious trouble if the two ever crossed paths. Basta knew that Dustfinger had the advantage of his white-hot, faithful flames on his side, powers that could make the unbeatable Night-mare crumble.

Slinking forwards like a panther, he was soon close enough to reach out and tap the boy's skinny shoulder, and he smothered a snigger of disbelief that Farid's sharp hearing hadn't picked him up yet. But the glint of his knife as a rogue streak of sunshine gave him away, and as Farid turned to catch the light's source his eyes widened when he caught Basta's foxy face.

Basta snarled and lunged forwards, and Farid cried out when the man's hand snaked around his neck and yanked his hair back. Farid struggled and kicked out and clawed at his opponent like a fierce little demon, but when the cold knife was placed at his throat, he remained as still as a rabbit caught in headlights, chest heaving and falling rapidly.

"Little runt!" Basta hissed in his ear. "Following me, were you? Were you!"

"What are you doing here?!" gasped Farid. "You're dead, are you a ghost!?" The boy trembled.

"Not a ghost, but alive, unfortunately for you."

"But your eyes…?"

Basta grinned darkly and leaned in closer. "Night-Mare" he breathed.

This made Farid take in a sharp breath and writhe a little more.

"Stop your squirming, unless you want your head off!" Basta growled, standing up with a fist still full of Farid's hair, dragging him up to his feet too. "Tell me where your fire-loving Dirty-fingers is."

Farid glared defiantly. "I'll never tell you."

"I think you ought to consider your options, boy. Take me to Dustfinger and you'll go unharmed, or I'll slit your throat right here, right now, for your beloved Fire-Dancer to discover covered in flies."

Farid's Adam's apple leaped against the blade as he swallowed. He shook his head with tight lips.

Basta sighed raggedly. "Then you leave me no choice, Farid. It must be terrible to die again."

"You'll be the one to die again, Basta" said a new voice. "And this time, I'll chain you to Death's domain so you can't escape her clutches again."

Basta stiffened. He slowly glanced sideways and felt his stomach churn and his skin quiver as he took in the man standing a few feet away. A man that burned from within his skin and set his flesh alight with golden sparks that settled like fireflies in his auburn hair.

"Dustfinger" Basta murmured.


End file.
